


The Discord of Sight

by MyHeartExplodesWhenIReadJohnlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Established Relationship, I'm Sorry, I'm so sorry, Insecure Sherlock, Kindda, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Really this gets sad fast, Sad John, Sad Sherlock, Sad everone, Sickfic, Top John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-05-09 16:52:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5548031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyHeartExplodesWhenIReadJohnlock/pseuds/MyHeartExplodesWhenIReadJohnlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when everything that makes Sherlock who he is, is stripped from him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Longing

**Author's Note:**

> I want to warn you that this WILL take me forever to write. You are in this for the long haul. So prepare yourself. Also I'm not a doctor, so things might be totally wrong, but accept my logic.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr!  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/iaintevenbothered97

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to warn you that this WILL take me forever to write. You are in this for the long haul. So prepare yourself. Also I'm not a doctor, so things might be totally wrong, but accept my logic.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr!  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/iaintevenbothered97
> 
> Also I now have an amazing beta!! Megabat, thank you for all you're help so far, and correcting all the parts that literally made zero sense sometimes. You are awesome!

The night was brilliant. Clear and perfect. John was chasing after Sherlock, chest heaving, and heart pounding as he trailed after the Detective. Sherlock rounded a corner and John speeds up, not willing to let the man out of his sight.

Sherlock, the git that he is, turns his head to grin stupidly at John, as if to say ’Look John, I solved it!’

John couldn’t help but to grin stupidly back.

Sherlock pivots on his heel to take off to the left, colliding with the suspect, who looked shocked to see them, before he snarled and came after Sherlock swinging. Sherlock passively blocking and dodging, while the suspect becomes more outraged each time his fist hits empty air instead of tall detective.

With rage, the suspect throws all of his weight at Sherlock, knocking him off balance. Sherlock, unable to stop his fall, hears the thud of his head meeting pavement and groans at the weight crushing his stomach and lungs. His vision swimming he tries to block the punches aimed for his head before the weight is blessedly gone. Disorientated, he stands up, swaying, barely registering the sounds of John forcefully knocking the man unconscious with a growl.

“Jo-“

He chokes on the word in pain. He can’t make out any of the shapes, his eyes spotted with white and black and his knee crashes with the ground grotesquely.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?”

Sherlock feels the weight of a hand on his shoulder, the reassuring sound of someone familiar. **John** his mind recalls. His friend. His best friend. His lover.

“John, I can’t see.”

“It’ll be ok, help is on the way Sherlock. You’ve got a pretty good bang to the head. But you’ve had worse, it’ll be ok. Stay awake for me Sherlock.”

He can feel his head being cradled by John. Johns face swimming in front of him.

“Sherlock, I need you to stay awake.”

That’s the last thing he hears before he goes unconscious.

***

 

Pain.

That’s what he feels first. Dull and muted by drugs in his knee and skull. Second is a hand, wrapped up in his own. He flexes it instinctively.

Immediately the hand tightens and there ruffling off to the side as the hands owner comes closer.

“Sherlock, hey Sherlock, are you awake?”

_John._ Beautiful, perfect, amazing John.

He opens his mouth to speak and croaks instead. He feels a straw being guided into his mouth and he greedily sucks down the ice water, only be have it stripped away from him.

He hears John’s laughter and it swells his heart. “Sherlock, don’t pout at me. You know you can’t drink it that quickly. Hey, no no, don’t try and sit up, you’ll only hurt yourself.”

Sherlock groans as John gently stops him from propping himself up.

“Try to open your eyes Sherlock.”

The light is blinding, but he can make out John’s concerned face. There’s still little spots of black on the edges of his vision, and he surmises it to be the result of the pain he can feel throbbing in the back of his mind. John smiles at him, and he can’t help but give a small smile back.

“Hullo, nice to see those eyes again.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Nearly three days, you had me in a right panic. But then again, you can’t do anything without being dramatic, can you?”

Sherlock huffs in a way that could almost be laughter before he gazes around the hospital.

“Mycroft got me a private room, how annoying of him. Concussion?”

“Yes, a bad one since we couldn’t even wake you up. They tried to keep me out. I may have yelled. Just a bit.”

Sherlock hums noncommittally, continuing to look around the room, trying to blink away the black spots in his vision.

“I’m going to go call them in now, ok? Be nice.” John levels a look at Sherlock that says _or else,_ and walks out into the hallway to fetch a nurse. Sherlock briefly slips into his mind palace and sees a few things knocked around, but otherwise still intact and functional. He hears the scuff of nurse shoes and the accustomed sound of John’s gait as he opens his eyes once more, still plagued with the little black spots around his vision.

“Hello!” A blonde chipper nurse greets him with a smile, “It’s nice to see you finally awake. How are we feeling today?”

Sherlock can already see the tedium of questions he’s about to suffer through.

“Let me out.”

The blondes smile falters and she passes a confused look at John who looks exacerbated.

“Sherlock, please just let them do their job.”

“John, you’re my doctor, I don’t see why I need a thrice divorced nurse who knows less than a tenth of what you know to question me.”

The blonde looks even more confused and slightly affronted as she opens her mouth to retaliate, but John snaps before she has a chance.

“I don’t care Sherlock, you were unconscious for three days, you’re going to let her ask her questions, you’re going to let another doctor who knows more about concussions than me examine you, and then we’re going to go home, and you’re going to rest and heal. That is what is going to happen, do you understand me?”

“I don’t see w-“

“Sherlock”, John rumbles his name, steel in his voice.

Sherlock scowls at him, defiant, and John holds his gaze unflinching. Sherlock, after a minute, finally relents and sighs as if this is the most grievous thing he has even been through. John smiles far too smugly at him. Sherlock scowls harder.

John turns to the nurse, still smiling, “Go ahead and ask your questions.”

She looks back and forth between them and bewilderment and then steps toward Sherlock and asks question after question about where he is (Hospital), why he’s there (obviously concussion), and what he remembers (everything important). She leaves promising the doctor will be with them shortly and scuttles out the door.

There’s silence for a while after she leaves, John gazing in middle distance and Sherlock sorting through the events of the case.

“John, did they catch the suspect?” John jumps at his name, looking startled, but then smiles.

“Yeah, they did, he confessed when caught. Sorry you didn’t get to show off this time, but you were still brilliant.”

Sherlock warms at those words, and gives a small smile at John in thanks. John settles into the chair next to the bed and reaches for his hand again.

“I really was worried about you, you know.”

“Of course you were, basic caretaker instincts.”

John laughs and brings Sherlock’s hand to his lips. “No, you bastard, because you’re everything to me. You aren’t allowed to leave me, I just got you back.”

“You’ve always had me John.”

“Shut it you berk, you know what I mean. I just got to have sex with you and you were going to take that away from me?” John grins wickedly down at him even though his eyes are shining with tears at the real fear he had felt.

Sherlock brings his hand up to cup John’s face, thrilled at the fact he no longer had to restrain himself in moments like this. His lips twitch into a loving smile at the attempt John made to hide his fear, and lets John press his face into Sherlock’s touch. “You know you insult me when trying to say you love me.”

John laughs and kisses Sherlock’s hand. “Git.”

***

Twenty minutes later, after Sherlock had become entirely bored and insufferable, the doctor shows up.

“Finally.”

“Sherlock, behave.”

“We’ve been waiting so he could go screw a co-worker in a closet. No. A lab. Honestly.” John looks unimpressed and turns to the Doctor who had his mouth open in shock.

“Good for you mate.” John deadpans, “Could you finish him off so he stops being a prat?”

“John!”

“You are Sherlock, don’t act insulted, it’s insulting to me. You know what you’re doing.” Sherlock grumbles something incomprehensible. And sulks.

“So if you could examine him please?”

“Y-yes, of course. Sherlock, any nausea, dizziness, vision problems, or other abnormalities?”

Sherlock grumbles again.

“I’m sorry?”

“My vision!” Sherlock says a bit too loudly.

John winces, “For Christ sake Sherlock, just answer the questions normally.”

Sherlock’s scowl deepens. “My vision, it’s fuzzy on the edges.”

“Fuzzy?”

“Yes! Fuzzy, unclear, dim, spotted, blurred, hazy, shall I go on?”

The doctor is most certainly irritated now. “Alright, fine, that’s not to be unexpected with a concussion like this. Anything else?”

“No.”

The doctor frowns while consulting the chart and asks questions to test Sherlock’s reasoning and processing skills after the concussion, and then moves on to vision and motor functions.

“Alright, fortunately the patella wasn’t fractured, but it is heavily bruised so you’ll have to keep off of it for a while. You also have a slight delay in pupil response, but I don’t believe it to be anything we should be concerned about. I think you’re ok to be released after a night of observation, and-“

“No.”

The doctor frowns more, “Sir, you really should-“

“I said no, John will take care of me.”

The doctor look imploringly at John only to be greeted with a shrug. “I’m a doctor, I’m more than capable of watching him, and trust me, you don’t want him anyways.”

“But-“

“Doctor, you won’t convince him, and neither will I. It’s best if you just leave it.”

The doctor looked as if he wanted to protest more, but looking between John and Sherlock he seems to come to a conclusion and only says, “Alright, I’ll have them bring up release papers.” He scribbles out a few prescriptions and hands them to John, who takes them with a nod of thanks. “I’ll let them know you’re insisting on being released against doctor recommendation.”

“Thank you.” John says politely and Sherlock scoffs from his bed as the Doctor leaves.

Just looks that Sherlock with fond annoyance and walks over to the bed, “Let’s go home you impossible man.” John leans over to press a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead.

Sherlock smiles.

***

John goes to help Sherlock up the stairs of 221B only to be shrugged off with an affronted look from the Detective. “Honestly John, do you think me a child? I am perfectly able to walk on my own.” He sways a bit on the second step, and grabs the railing for support scowling at the stairs in personal affront.

John makes an effort to keep his laughter to himself, covering it with a cough that doesn’t fool Sherlock for a moment. Throwing another affronted look behind him at John, he climbs the stairs in determination. Making it to the top he throws open the door, and nearly topples over at the threshold, John catching him round the middle.

John hugs him from behind rubbing soothing circles on Sherlock’s stomach. “Sherlock, you don’t have to impress me, exerting yourself into fainting isn’t very fun for me to watch anyways.” He presses a kiss between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, “I want to take care of you, love. Let me take care of you.”

Sherlock grumbles but let’s himself grow lax and pliant as he is led to their bedroom. John gently guides him to lie down and adjusts the pillow so he’s half propped up, finishing off the task with a kiss to the forehead.

“I’m going to go make you soup, and you’re going to eat it, ok?

“With crackers?”

John laughs, “Of course with crackers, you gorgeous brilliant man.” John presses another kiss to his forehead and strides out of the room.

Sherlock can’t get enough of John’s compliments and affections, and John is always forthcoming with them, but he frowns as soon as John is out of his line of sight. It scares him, this level of affection. This constant _need_ inside of him, sometimes he remembers why he sworn off relationships in the first place. It’s overwhelming, terrifying, completely overpowering. _But also exhilarating, fulfilling, and… necessary. **John** is necessary. _ And the thought cycle repeats, leaning from nerve-wracking to exciting over and over again until he sees John smile. Until he sees the love in John’s eyes, and it reassures him that it’s all worth it to see his face light up with every kiss Sherlock gives him, and with every kiss he can give Sherlock.

And it’s still painfully new. To see the love so open on John’s face, although if he really thought about it, it had always been there. Illogical as it was, and Sherlock _knew_ it was illogical, he needs John’s constant reassurance that he won’t leave. That Sherlock’s life of excitement and adventure are exactly what he wants, that _Sherlock_ is exactly what he wants, and John always reassures him. _‘Yes Sherlock, I was empty before this life. I have a purpose by your side. I love you.’_ He needs John in a way he had never needed anyone, and it _petrified_ him.

John came back to the room grinning, hot soup in hand with Sherlock’s crackers off to the side, and Sherlock feels his thoughts and fears subside at the sight of his smile, and he smiles back.

***

“The vision still cloudy?”

Sherlock ‘hmm’s’ agreeably while he continues to look into his microscope, blinking often to try and shake the black spots from his vision.

“It’s been ten days Sherlock, I think we should go back in.”

Sherlock sighs, but decides that he is probably right, it was extremely annoying without his vision at 100%. “Alright then, let’s go.”

John looks a little shocked that Sherlock doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t question it as he picks up his coat and tosses Sherlock his Belstaff. Sherlock misses it. Grabbing at the air nearly a foot away from the arc of the coat, and looks shocked by it. They stand in silence for a moment until Sherlock bends to pick up the coat from where it has landed on the ground, and he puts it on looking almost embarrassed. John is suddenly angry at himself for not insisting they head to the hospital earlier. He could see the signs of Sherlock vision not clearing up, but was hoping that as the concussion healed up, the vision would get better.

He couldn’t change the past, however, and he had confidence in their doctors. Sherlock would be alright soon.

***

“Your pupil response is still slow. But it doesn’t seem any worse than last time.” The doctor scratches out yet another prescription. “It was a nasty concussion. These things take time. Here’s a different prescription, and if it gets any worse, come back.”

***

“We need anything you can give us Sherlock. We’re completely baffled at this one.”

Sherlock scoffs, “Of course you are Lestrade, when are you ever not.”

Lestrade levels a look at him and decides to leave them alone in favor of yelling out his frustrations on his detectives instead of Sherlock.

“Sherlock, no need to be a prat, you said this was an 8 yourself.”

Sherlock ‘hmms’ and lowers himself to study the victim’s fingernails. Blinking rapidly to rid himself of these annoying spots. He exhales in frustration, and tries to squint more closely.

“Sherlock?” John says concerned.

“How can function with these spots! It’s an absolutely annoying hindrance.”

“Can you not see?” John looks positively alarmed now.

“I can’t focus, I can’t focus on the details, and everywhere I turn these shadows follow.” He tries to rub his eye with the palm of his hand and looks at the victim’s fingernails once again. His vision it just as muddled as before, “How am I supposed to do the Work?” He snatches himself away from the corpse in disgust at his sight and his inability to solve _his_ case, _his_ puzzle.

“Sherlock, it’s only been five days since the new prescription. He said you need to give it time. You’ve already solved two cases for Lestrade just on the phone, so you’re still the smartest person I know.”

Despite himself, Sherlock calms at the compliment slightly. He scowls again as Lestrade comes back in. “I can’t help you on this case Lestrade.”

“What? Why?”

“Vision. Concussion 18 days ago and vision is still spotty. Sorry but I’m useless. John and I are leaving now.”

“You can’t help at all?”

Sherlock glares, “I just said-“

“Yes, me and Sherlock are really sorry. She was strangled with what looks to be a wire of some sort, if that helps any. We really should be off Greg, text later if you have any question that can be answered by phone.”

“Wait-“

John neatly thrusts a brooding Sherlock through the door, “Goodbye Greg.”

***

At Baker Street Sherlock sulked epically. The ever increasing boredom unsated and cloudy spots following his sight however he moved. He screeches his violin with ire.

“Sherlock?”

“What? Am I _‘ok’,_ the Work John, my mind needs a puzzle.” The screech of the violin supplementing his every word, “And. I. Am. Useless.” He pauses at the admission, something akin to dread coiling in his stomach. _I am useless._

Johns scoffs and pulls the violin gently out of his hand, setting it on the table, and pushes Sherlock onto the couch. “Love, you can never be useless.” John sits next to him a pulls him against his chest. Sherlock curls into him. Feeling safe and comforted, the familiar all-consuming _need_ soothing the knot of dread. “You listen to me Sherlock, this is temporary, you’ll be all healed up, and you can be the brilliant madman that I love watching soon enough. For now, you are just the gorgeous, absolutely sexy, sulking man that I love.” John tilts his head down to look at him. John’s eyes are bluer than the ocean. Bright, and clear, and in love. Sherlock will never tire of seeing them.

John notes that Sherlock’s eyes are a pale blue today. _Almost a milky blue._ So open and vulnerable that John never wants to hurt them.

He leans in to kiss Sherlock on the lips, and immediately he can feel Sherlock’s want as he deepens the kiss. He’s pleasantly surprised and hums approvingly as he draws Sherlock into his lap. Slipping his hands to the round arse of the detective.

Sherlock groans and presses even closer. He breathes in an unsteady breath. “How do you do that?”

“Do what, love?”

“Quiet my mind. Make me feel better?”

John smiles against his neck. “That’s what partners do, Sherlock. They see when the other is upset and they do something about it.”

“I love you John, so much.”

John loves how affectionate Sherlock gets during times like this. “I love you too, always. You are so gorgeous.”

Sherlock sighs and grinds down on John’s lap hard, making the blonde gasp, and he bucks up by instinct. He growls and stands up, lifting Sherlock up with him. “Let’s take this to the bedroom. I want to show you just how much you drive me crazy Sherlock.” Sherlock grins wickedly and latches on to John’s neck even as John carries him to the bedroom. John inhales sharply at the sensation, and tightens his hold of Sherlock. Struggling not to take the man on the floor with passion.

Somehow they make it to the bedroom, and collapse onto the bed. John sets out immediately returning the favor and starts to nip and lick and kiss up and down Sherlock’s pale throat. Sherlock lets out a heady moan that goes straight to the fire burning low in John’s stomach. He moans in answer, and starts to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt, kissing every inch of skin as it becomes exposed.

“Sherlock, you make me want every part of you, you’re so gorgeous.”

“John, yes-more.”

He undoes the last button of Sherlock’s shirt, and runs his hands up Sherlock sides, reveling in the shudder it sends through Sherlock’s body. He presses a kiss onto Sherlock’s stomach and splays the shirt open, allowing him to work more easily. Sherlock is nearly vibrating underneath his touch. His breath coming in shallow pants as he squeezes his eyes shut. _So sensitive. So reactive. He’s beautiful._

“Sherlock, open your eyes, pet. Watch me.”

Sherlock immediately opens his heat glazed eyes and sets them on John. His pupils huge, not reacting to the light above them at all. Hunger shadowing his features.

It makes the fire in John burn through him. He loves everything about Sherlock, but it’s these moments where Sherlock shuts down his mind, the moments where _John_ shuts down his mind, and it gives over to sensation and pleasure that John has come to treasure. He growls and glides up Sherlock’s body to claim his mouth. Hand fisted into the brunette’s hair. Tilting his head so he has complete control of the kiss.

“You are bloody stunning Sherlock.” He gasps into his mouth. Sherlock only hums meekly in reply, clinging to John desperately.

John finally lifts away, keeping Sherlock in place with the hand in his hair, and takes a moment to appreciate the sight before him. Sherlock’s parted lips, wet and swollen from Johns kiss. Eyes closed in pleasure, panting as if they had just ran across half of London. It’s perfect.

“I said open your eyes.”

Sherlock opens them once more. Unfocused and glassy. Pale blue irises nearly swallowed in darkness.

“Watch me.”

Sherlock’s focus snaps to him again, and it takes nearly all of John’s control to not attack him again. That focus is intoxicating and addictive after having been denied it for so long. It makes John burn.

“I can’t believe I finally have you. I can’t believe you’re mine now.”

“Always John, yours.”

Sherlock watches John’s face turn into something primal at those words. Something that makes Sherlock want to do anything John wants. Something that makes Sherlock melt.

“Mine.”

And John delivers another bruising kiss, hands groping and stripping Sherlock simultaneously. Sherlock is groaning, and keening, and all around making it very difficult for John to think at all. He realizes Sherlock is talking, and he tries to collect himself enough to hear it.

“L-lube, fuck, John, yes – yes, lube, we need lube.”

John rumbles and rips away from Sherlock enough to reach over into the drawer, pulling out the tube of lube and immediately slicks up his fingers. Pressing one into Sherlock and gets a sobbing moan in reply.

“Sherlock you are so perfect, so tight, so warm. So perfect. Christ, Sherlock, I love you.”

“Y-yes John, I love you too. Oh- John, please”

“Shhh, I know pet. You’re so perfect.”

John presses a second finger in. Sherlock moans reverberates into John bones. He twists his fingers, searching, _there._

Sherlock sobs. “Oh fuck, John. Please, please. J-John.”

John feels Sherlock clench around him and then relax, allowing him to enter deeper, and he begins to scissor the man open slowly. His aching cock trapped in his jeans, pressing painfully up. Which might be good, John might cum from just watching the man in front of him moan in bliss. Barely managing to keep his half closed eyes open from Johns command. It’s so beautiful.

John leans into kiss him once again. More gently this time and Sherlock whimpers against his mouth. Seeming to become needier at the gentle kisses. John adds a third finger starts to move his fingers more quickly in and out of the detective, keeping his kisses just as gentle, encouraging Sherlock into teasing kisses of tongue and nips at his bottom lip, and Sherlock responds, encouraging John to take back control.

It drives John wild.

He speeds up his fingers to a near brutal pace, and takes the control Sherlock so willingly gives him. Sherlock makes a desperate noise.

“John, p-please”

“Please what, pet?”

“Please- _oh, fuck_ -please fuck me.

John doesn’t need to be told twice and he removes his fingers lifting Sherlock legs over his shoulder and thrusts into the man. “Oh, _God,_ Sherlock.”

Sherlock sobs with relief at being filled by John, owned, and loved, and claimed, and _finally._

John stays in place for a moment, letting Sherlock adjust. Forehead against Sherlock’s catching his breath and shaking with the effort to keep it together, he makes a tiny experimental thrust and the sound Sherlock makes threatens to throw him over the edge.

“Oh, Christ Sherlock, the things you do to me.”

“John, more, please- John- fuck”

John moves slowly all the way out and rams into Sherlock again. Sherlock moans in the most beautifully obscene way and John does it again. And again. And again. Increasing speed as Sherlock increases volume, until he’s thrusting and pounding into Sherlock _hard,_ skin slapping against skin. Sherlock letting out a constant stream of _Yes John fuck me yes please please John John John._

John shifts a little, just the way he knows Sherlock loves. He reaches between them to grasp Sherlock’s cock, pumping fast as John pounds into him. Sherlock’s face twists into pure pleasure, and for the first time is completely silent. John can feel his tight hole clenching and pulsing around him, hot streams shooting out onto his stomach, and John’s vision goes white as he buries himself into Sherlock, filling him with everything he has to offer. He collapses onto Sherlock feeling so in love and satisfied he grins into the Detective’s neck.

“I love you Sherlock.”

Sherlock hums happily, still panting, “I love you to, John.” He slurs, not quite able to find the energy to speak clearly. John chuckles and plants a kiss to his forehead.

Sherlock ‘hmm’s happily again. He feels like he’s drifting, _Floating on cloud 9,_ he thinks to himself musingly. He smiles to himself as he feels John move to reach the flannel and wipe him down, and drifts off to sleep, limp and sated. Content in John’s arms.


	2. Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting sporadically after this since my school courses are starting up once again, but I'll be as fast as I can!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr!  
> iaintevenbothered97

Sherlock slams his hands on the table in defeat, “John this is intolerable.”

John jumps, and looks up from his newspaper in annoyance, but quickly his features convert into sympathy at Sherlock’s distraught expression. “I know love, I’m sorry. At least it’s getting better right?”

“No.”

John frowns, “No? What do you mean no?”

“I mean no, John.” Sherlock snaps, irritation coloring his tone, “It’s not any better. In fact, it’s getting worse. And,” He throws his test tubes into the bin one by one, shattering each of them at the bottom, “I. Am. Going. Insane.” He misses the last tube and calls out in frustration and kicks it over.

John stands up and starts walking over to the detective. “Sherlock, look, we can-“

Sherlock spins and stalks towards John with a hand out angrily, “ _No,_ no John, stop it. I cannot function like this. You - with your silly little mind - can’t possibly understand what this is like. There’s _nothing_ I can do. My mind is shredding itself apart, and there’s nothing I CAN DO!” He yells in John’s face, spinning, he stalks over to the couch, practically slamming himself down wrapping himself in his dressing gown.

John stares dumbly at him after the outburst, his doctor's’ mind whirling with the new information. It’s been 5 weeks since the concussion. He’d known that Sherlock was still having vision issues, but he had stopped bumping his shoulder against the side of walls and knocking his knees on furniture weeks ago. He’d seen improvements in Sherlock’s coordination when they went out. In fact, he wouldn’t have noticed that Sherlock was having any issues if it hadn’t been for his little hums of frustration at his experiments and the way he squinted at his phone every time Lestrade texted with a new case. He was beginning to become concerned that it was taking far too long for him to recover fully - especially since Sherlock’s mental state was starting to deteriorate – but he had thought he had seen some improvement.

He can’t help but say out loud, “But your coordination has improved.”

Sherlock glances up disdainfully, “Because I’m not knocking into things?” He scoffs, “Honestly, I’m a genius, you think I can’t memorize the layout of my home and avoid obstacles when I have all of London mapped inside my mind. Even for you that’s stupid.”

John ignores the insult, starting to panic at this point. “How much worse?”

“Do you want that by percentage?”

“Sherlock, stop it, this isn’t good.”

Sherlock sneers, “Of course it isn’t good John! What do you thi-“

“Sherlock, shut up, why haven’t you said anything, it’s been a month?”

Sherlock shrugs, “The doctor said it would take time.”

“It’s supposed to be getting better, Sherlock!” John moves frantically to the first aid kit in the kitchen, opening it up and rummaging through it until he retrieves a small flashlight. “This really isn’t good. It’s been over a month, I should have asked. Fuck, of course you’d memorize the house, and the city, and the bloody rooftops, I am such an idiot.” He brings the light over to Sherlock, who is starting to look alarmed at Johns panic.

“John, he said it would take time.”

“Yes, well maybe if he wasn’t so busy screwing people in closets he’d stop being an idiot and actually do something instead of giving you useless prescriptions. Tilt your head up.”

“Labs.” Sherlock corrects automatically, tilting his head up as John shines lights in his eye. He can’t see John’s sharp look, but he can feel it. “Isn’t there a saying? Things get worse before they get better? Or some such nonsense.”

“And that’s exactly what it is. Nonsense. At least for this. Grab your stuff, we’re going to the Hospital.”

Sherlock frowns but stands up and walks towards his coat. He pauses and looks at John who is shoving his feet into his trainers. “John?” Sherlock asks quietly. John glances up, “Am I ok?”

John’s expression falls at the amount of uncertainty in his voice. He stands up and embraces Sherlock in a fierce hug. “Oh Sherlock, everything will be fine. We’ll figure this out.”

Sherlock hugs back, but he can’t stop the feeling of doubt creeping in.

***

They arrive at the hospital to find Mycroft waiting for them.

“Ah, hello, brother dear, nice to see you.”

“What are you doing here Mycroft? Don’t you have wars to start, diets to fail at.”

“Weight jabs right at the start. I thought as much. I’m afraid that your previous doctor had some criminal connections and has had his license removed. As well as his freedom. But no need to fret, I have one of my top ophthalmologist available, little brother.”

Sherlock scowls, “I don’t need your concern Mycroft, just l-“

“Sherlock,” John interrupts, dropping his voice to speak to Sherlock directly, “Look, I know you hate your brother helping you, but this could be serious. We’ve already lost over a month to that worthless excuse of a doctor. An ophthalmologist! He should have recommended an ophthalmologist right away, _I_ should have known you’d need a-“

Sherlock cuts into John’s self-flagellation, “John it’s not your fault, but I don’t need-“

“Are you two quite done? This is a terribly inconvenient time for me to be away from the office, I have a meeting I simply can’t miss with the- well, the point is I’m on a schedule, we really must go.”

Sherlock glares at Mycroft’s attempt to show off, and looks at John to protest more. He sees the pleading look John is giving him.

He also sees the swimming spots in his vision where John’s features comes in and out of focus, and the darkening of his peripheral vision.

He reluctantly admits to himself that Mycroft’s resources has the potential to expedite tests and procedures that he assumes will have to be done. He also berates himself for not seeing whatever ‘criminal connections’ his doctor had; a delay in his treatment he should have been able to prevent. It ought to have been obvious for him. He can forgive himself for his initial contact with the doctor. After waking up from a serious concussion, his mental faculties hadn’t been at 100% - he could still tell the doctor just had sex from the flush on his skin, wrongly buttoned shirt, and residual lipstick from their nurse on his lips after all -but his failure to deduce the man on their second meeting had to be down to his deteriorating vision. He literally didn’t _see_ it. And that was unacceptable. Having no cases was unacceptable. Being unable to do the Work was unacceptable. He needed the Work.

He turns to Mycroft with bitter acceptance, “Fine.” He can feel John’s relief beside him.

Mycroft smiles. Or does what Mycroft calls a smile.

“There there, brother dear, we’ll have it sorted soon enough. Dr. Wilson is waiting at a private facility. My driver will take you there.” Two black cars pull up to the curb, “I really must go now.” Mycroft says as he opens the door of the first car. “Take care Sherlock. Doctor Watson.” He nods to John and gracefully slides into the car, shutting the door as the car starts to drive.

“Think if we got married he’d call me ‘brother dear’ as well?” John quips.

Sherlock barks a laugh and turns toward the other car, holding the door open for John who slides in, Sherlock quickly following.

“Perhaps, we could always put it to the test?” Sherlock looks cheekily at John, who laughs.

“Is that you asking me to marry you?”

“Will you marry me?”

John laughs again, “Stop it, you git.” Then his face turns serious and he say haughtily “I have to be woo’d.”

Sherlock looks amused. “Woo’d?”

John keeps his straight face, “Yes, woo’d. You’ll have to sweep me off my feet to turn me into a blushing bride.”

Sherlock grins and leans over to whisper into John’s ear provocatively, “Tell me, how exactly,” Sherlock spreads his legs slightly, “can I present myself,” his hand snakes over to grip John’s thigh, just above his knee, “to make you blush?”

John inhales sharply when Sherlock squeezes his thigh, and blushes.

Sherlock pulls away and grins down in triumph.

John looks at him in defiance. “It’s just rather warm in here.”

Sherlock laughs, “You’re right, it is.” He takes off his scarf and undoes the top button of the dress shirt, exposing his pale throat and watches as John’s eyes darken.

John shifts in his seat in a rather obvious why. “Cheater.” he mumbles under his breath.

“It’s hardly my fault you have a fixation on my neck.”

“It’s entirely your fault. You have the neck!”

Sherlock sniffs, “Yes, well, I might use that to my advantage.”

John shifts again, and tries to look everywhere but at Sherlock. _We most certainly can’t have that._ Sherlock slides over and looks out of John’s window, feigning that he saw something and wanted a closer look. Stretching his now exposed throat in front of John. John makes a predatory sound, and Sherlock smirks.

“God damn, gorgeous, beautiful, cheater” John restates. “We are in your brother’s car, which definitely has cameras, because your brother loves cameras, and if you keep doing that, we’re about to give your brother quite the show.”

Sherlock smirks again, but retreats to the other side of the car once more. He glances and sees John clutching his hands in his lap. Trying to keep control. Sherlock can’t help but try and break that control. He shuffles himself down so that John will look at him, then leans his head to the side to rest on the window, lengthening his neck, and subtly pulling the hem of his sleeve down to exposed more of his skin.

John’s breath hitches before he feels, rather than hears, his growl. Sherlock turns to look at him with a completely innocent expression. “Something wrong?”

John glares, but heat and lust swim in his eyes. _Cheeky bastard,_ “Cheater.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about John.”

“You know what you’re doing.”

“Do I?”

“Yes! You do, and stop it!”

Sherlock is quiet for a moment and John turns to look out the window.

“Is that a no to the marriage then?”

John turns to him with an incredulous expression before he bursts out laughing, and Sherlock joins him. John wiping away tears as he opens up his arms to invite Sherlock to lean against him. Sherlock readily accepts the offer, leaning back into John’s side, and John rewards him with a kiss to his temple. “Maybe, if you asked me normally.”

“Ugh, normal, normal is boring.”

“Well, maybe if you asked me properly then.” Amusement in his voice.

_Properly._ Is John saying he would say yes? Sherlock frowns to himself, the mirth of the moment fading. Would John actually _marry_ him. It makes sense, it would no longer be a battle to stay in each other’s hospital rooms. Their finances were already combined, although that was more from Sherlock’s lack of caring about the bills, and John eventually taking his finances over, years ago, before Moriarty or Mary. John married Mary after two years knowing her, he and John have been together far longer, even if you exclude the two years Sherlock had faked his death, and John has told Sherlock he had been in love with Sherlock far longer as well. They loved each other. _That what people in love do, right? Get married?_

But a sentimental celebration of everything he found to be superficial and illogical; would John expect that from him? He shared his views on marriage when John and Mary got engaged, multiple times, even went as far to reiterate it in his best-man's speech, surely John wouldn’t expect him to go through a ridiculous tradition of over-romanticized gestures.

But marriage meant something to John, and if Sherlock were to be honest with himself, he can start to see why it might. Being with John has remained the happiest he has ever been. Professing to the world that John was his, and he was John’s sounded – appealing. Not to mention the legal benefits it would provide in their life together. _And it would make John happy, wouldn’t it?_ Suddenly, he was nervous. What if John didn’t actually want to get married? Maybe his stint with Mary had put him off of the whole idea. Finding out your wife was a killer and a liar must have had some effect on his thoughts on the matter.

_But he just said he would accept if asked, hadn’t he?_ Sherlock can feel a dull headache start to form from his rapid thoughts continuing in an endless wheel of insecurity, emotion, and logic. _This should be simple, do I, or do I not, want to spend my life with John Watson?_ The answer is an obvious, overwhelming _‘Yes!’_ Marriage was the obvious choice then.

_Husband._ The word whirled round in his mind, and the more he thought about it, the more he came to approve of calling himself John’s husband.

“John, maybe we s-“

“I think we’re here Sherlock.” John interjects.

Sherlock lifts up and looks out the window at large old fashioned hospital building, with different wings and offices corresponding to the different branches of medicine the hospital catered to, the driver pulled around and stopped in front of a set of double doors which read, **“Vision and Eye Care: Department of Ophthalmology”**

Sherlock silently slips out of the car waiting for John to get out as well. John smiles at him and says, “It’ll be nice to have a capable doctor and get this fixed, won’t it?”

Sherlock hums noncommittally in reply, but smiles back, walking hand in hand through the door.

***

He doesn’t feel anything as the doctor continues to talk. He absorbs it all, files and stores it away in his mind palace, making mental notes of what to research later when at home, and cross referencing it with files already stored. He’s listening to every word the doctor is saying, but he can’t seem to actively process it. Staring at the doctor’s mouth as it continues to talk.

He feels a hand grip his and he rips his eyes away from the talking doctor to stare at the silent one. John looks pale. He is also staring at Dr. Wilson’s mouth, but he seems to be feeling emotion and it shows. Anger, disbelief, sadness. Crushing sadness, in truth. Maybe grief. Sherlock suddenly finds it important to find the exact word for John’s expression – heartache, sorrow, pain, woe, angst, distress – none of them seem right to sum up the tightness around his eyes, the crinkle between his brows, the pinched lips, and heavy frown. It is a terrible, ugly expression and Sherlock hates it.

He’s still listening to the doctor. He can’t not listen, but he really doesn’t want to. He wants to go back to Baker Street. He wants to go back to his bed and stay in John’s arms until this is all forgotten. He wants to wipe that hateful look off of John’s face and replace it with pleasure and smiles and laughter.

Suddenly he can’t stand it anymore. He can’t stand one more second of this doctor’s prattling.

“Leave.”

Both doctors whip around to stare at him, and Dr. Wilson recovers first, his voice far too pitying and sympathetic, “I’ll go get some paperwork and give you a moment.” He stands up and leaves, shutting the door quietly.

Sherlock just stares, he still feels nothing. He hears John move closer to him, but he continues to stare at the door. John touches his arm and suddenly it’s too much, everything is too much, he violently lurches away and John jerks his hand back as if burned.

“Sherlock-“

“I said leave.” He can’t stare at his face anymore. He can’t look at the undefined expression for a moment longer. He knows what it means, and he’ll be damned if he’ll tolerate staring at it. The end mocking him like that.

John’s face falls. Impossibly more than it had already fallen. “Sherlock, please-

“Leave.”

“Please, just let me-“ Sherlock can’t take this pity, especially since he knows what’s coming. Maybe not now, maybe not in a week, or a month, or even a year, but he can see it happening already.

“LEAVE!” He screams. He can feel tears run down his cheek, which he finds intriguing. He still doesn’t feel anything; Does he?

John just stares at him in with that undefinable emotion. Sherlock’s eyes fall to the ground.

“Just- leave.” Sherlock finds himself falling into one of the chairs in the office. “Please.”

When John speaks his voice is rough and pained, “I’ll wait outside for you.” He walks towards the door and opens it, hesitating as he walks through. “I love you Sherlock, I’m so sorry.” He closes the door far too gently.

The dam breaks. He buries his head in his hands and aches.

***

John rests his head against the door as he hears Sherlock’s muffled sobs. His heart is throbbing and he finds it hard to breathe in a proper breath. He desperately wants to go in there and hold Sherlock against his chest, whispering sweet nothings that wouldn’t do a damn thing.

But he can’t. Sherlock wouldn’t accept that. So he waits. He listens to his other half breaking, and starts to break as well. _I can’t fall apart, Sherlock needs me._ He tries to blink away his tears, and thinks.

He thinks about what will have to change in the flat. Not much since Sherlock can memorize nearly everything. He thinks about what Sherlock will need to learn, and adapt to. He thinks about what he’s going to say to Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. He also worries.

He worries about what Sherlock will do. He worries about the boredom that seems to rip his insides out. He worries that Sherlock won’t let him in to help. He worries that he can’t help at all.

He doesn’t even have the opportunity to feel guilty, even if they had been referred to Dr. Wilson the moment Sherlock’s head slammed into the pavement it wouldn’t have mattered. The damage was done. Sherlock is losing his sight, far too quickly. In a few weeks, or if they’re lucky, a few months, Sherlock will be blind.

***

In the deathly silent taxi ride home, it dawns on Sherlock. Hopelessness. That was John's expression.


	3. Fears

“Sherlock.” John shuffles his feet nervously, trying to come up with some way to get Sherlock to talk about what’s happening to him, and what preparations need to be done. They need to talk about this. _Sherlock_ needs to talk about it, no matter how much he thinks he can just push it down and ignore it.

Sherlock is silent, back turned to John as he strips off his gloves and scarf. It makes John think about the easy playfulness from the trip to the hospital. John feels a pang of loss, which he immediately finds ridiculous, he hasn’t lost anything - Sherlock has. He steps closer to Sherlock and tries once more, “Sherlock, we should make plans.”

Sherlock turns in a slow circle, head down and shoulders hunched in on himself. John, more than anything, wants to gather him in his arms and take all of that sadness onto himself, but he can read the rigid posture, shoulders hunched with tension. His head held limply, like he can’t quite find the energy to lift it completely, and knows that his comfort would be unwelcome right now.

He stands there, waiting for John to continue his sentence, but John can’t find any words to say, nothing seems right. He clenches his fists to his side in a small tell of frustration, and Sherlock catches it, narrowing his eyes.

“Nothing to say to make everything _better_ John?”

“Sherlock, please don’t-“

“What? Don’t start a fight? Don’t be difficult? Don’t _go blind?_ Pray tell, John, what should I not do?” He flails his arms in irrational anger, looking anywhere but John.

John looks imploringly at Sherlock. “Please don’t push me out.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to retaliate in an argument that doesn’t exist, but snaps it shut again. His face goes through a series of expressions, far too quickly for John to make sense of, beside the underlying sadness that seems to accompany each thought. John can see him schooling his features into indifference, but he doesn’t quite succeed, that sadness etched into every line of his appearance.

“Please Sherlock, don’t do this.”

Sherlock looks him in the eye for the first time since he told John to leave the room at the hospital. His eyes are red rimmed from crying. His brilliant eyes, usually so sharp with focus, are glazed over. For the first time, John doesn’t feel that rush of pleasure at having Sherlock’s gaze and attention. In fact, it doesn’t look like Sherlock sees him at all, and John feels that pang of loss, but this time there’s no stopping it. He has lost something, because this is how it will be for the rest of their lives.

“I can’t do this John.” If John didn’t know Sherlock, it would sound as if he said ‘I can’t pick up the milk today’ or ‘I can’t play the saxophone’, but he does know Sherlock, better than he’s ever known anyone.

“Oh, sweetheart” He’s over to Sherlock in three strides, embracing Sherlock in a suffocating hug, and Sherlock just stands there rigidly for a moment, but gradually some of the tension seeps out of his shoulders. John just holds tighter, slightly swaying. Slowly, almost shyly, Sherlock’s arms come to embrace him back, loosely at first, and growing tighter, until it feels like Sherlock is trying to prevent John from ever leaving. He doesn’t cry, or break down, just holds on to John like he might try and leave at any moment.

“I love you Sherlock.” John’s voice is slightly muffled from Sherlock’s coat. “We’ll work together, we’ll get through this.”

For some reason, that makes Sherlock tense and slowly retract himself. John frowns and tries to figure out what he said to make Sherlock withdraw again. Sherlock turns his back to him and presses a palm to his eye tightly. “There is no ‘through this’, John. There is just _this._ ”

“That’s not what I-“

“I have research to do, before I’m unable to read altogether.”

John wants to explain himself. Reassure Sherlock that he’ll be there for him, but it’s good that Sherlock wants to learn about what’s happening to him, isn’t it? Looking into it meant dealing with what was happening to him, and John shouldn’t stand in the way of that. “Yeah, alright,” he hesitates and reaches out to Sherlock’s hand, Sherlock allows it, but makes no move to further the contact. Nevertheless, John runs soothing circles in the palm of his hand, he didn’t get where he is with Sherlock by letting Sherlock’s emotional ineptness bother him. “I love you.”

Sherlock drops his hand and starts to walk toward his room. “I love you too.” It sounds void to John’s ears. _I just need to give him time._

Sherlock quietly clicks the door behind him, and John stares at it for a few moments before deciding that he should look online for things Sherlock might need. Plan made, he gets out his laptop and turns it on, determined to help Sherlock, even if he doesn’t want it.

***

Everything is pristine in here. He can see everything in perfect clarity that just reminds him of how much he can’t see in reality. He’s gone through every resource on Optic Nerve Damage he had, which was, unsurprisingly, a very short list.

He turns and stares at a door that looks exactly like John’s old bedroom door upstairs. He can feel his subconscious mind pushing him towards it, but he ignores it. It apparently doesn’t like being ignored, because it knocks at him loudly. He glares, and it knocks again, but something isn’t right. It doesn’t sound like John’s door, it sounds like the bedroom door.

“Sherlock, open up, you’ve been in there for hours.” A pause, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock snaps out of his mind palace, head spinning a bit as it tries to orientate itself with diminished vision. “What?”

“I’ve got food,” Another pause, “and - I thought we could talk.” John’s sentence is on the edge of being a question. If he truly wanted to, Sherlock knows he could refuse food, and refuse conversation for a few days, but he knows John wouldn’t let it be indefinitely. He thinks about what’s to come, and his stomach lurches.

“Go away, John.”

“Sherlock, please.”

He can see it all playing out like a play inside his mind. John helping him with every difficulty a blind man might have. John’s loyalty, and caretaker instincts, and basic overall _goodness_ keeps John by his side. Of course John will help him get _through_ it. But what about after? In a year, when he has nothing to offer besides a flat share and something to fuck? _If I still **want** to fuck with the boredom constantly gnawing at the core of my thoughts, making me less than pleasant. _ His John is gorgeous. A fighter, and a healer, and addicted to a certain life-or-death lifestyle. Sherlock didn’t think he was enough for John before this, but _now?_ Now, he has nothing to offer. John will leave, eventually. It could take years, but he can see it happening already. It’d be easier to just push John away first. Leave before him.

“Sherlock?” John sounds so pleading, that it makes Sherlock ache.

_It’d be so much easier in the long run._

“Ok.” Sherlock stands to his feet. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

He can practically _hear_ John grinning through the door. “Great, I’ll just – get out the food!” Sherlock can hear footsteps retreating down the hall into the kitchen. He glances at the mirror and tries to fix his curls. He frowns to himself and makes a mental note to catalog his routine, so he can prevent his hair from becoming too unruly when he can no longer see the mess.

Then he scowls at himself. What does it _matter?_

John is murmuring to himself as he opens a package of plastic utensils. Sherlock’s meal is already on a plate, and he can smell the spicy aromas of lamb vindaloo before he even gets to the plate. John jumps when he turns to find Sherlock standing just a few feet from him.

“Jesus, Sherlock. Scared me.” He shuffles his feet before grabbing both their plates. “Want to eat in the living room?” Without waiting for an answer, he turns and walks to the couch, setting both their plates onto the coffee table. Sherlock follows him, trying to list every shade of his hair before he’s no longer able to see it.

John sits on the couch and starts to prepare his food how he likes, drowning his rice in sauce, he glances up and sees Sherlock still standing, “You going to stand there all day?”

Sherlock sits next to him and grabs a piece of naan, absentmindedly coating it with sauce. He knows that John is about to dive into whatever he’s researched while he himself was in the bedroom. There a paper with six different titles of books on the desk, and he can tell from John’s expression that he’s holding himself back from just blurting out everything he finds significant. Sherlock sighs inwardly, he doesn’t care about any of the books, and he’ll most likely find all of the authors to be idiotic or degrading. The books will no doubt be filled with appalling sayings like _‘Don’t let a disability control your life!’_ , or _‘You’re stronger than you think’_ , or other similar phrases. Absolutely ludicrous phrases that make him burn with anger at the thought of having to read such garbage.

Sherlock glances at John again. He can see the soldier’s determination, and the doctor’s support, and John’s hope. He can also see an underlying desperation. _Maybe it would help him more than it would me. The man in him needs to feel like he’s helping._

_It’d be so much easier if I just cut myself off._

He sighs again, this time out loud, and John takes the bait and looks up, “Say what you’re holding back John,” Sherlock drawls, “it’s painful to watch you struggle.”

John looks surprised, but only for a moment, before he give a little smile and starts to talk about the different things he’s found, glancing at Sherlock often to assure himself that he hasn’t gotten upset or closed down. Sherlock settles himself more firmly into the couch and resumes cataloging the color of John’s hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is taking so long between posts,  
> things get in the way, ya know?
> 
> Should be posting a little quicker soon though, and the next chapter should be longer!


	4. Wavering

Things were – better.

John had been the one to tell their closest friends.

Mrs. Hudson had cried silently while John explained medically what was happening to Sherlock. Then she had soundlessly gone straight upstairs to Sherlock – who looked more like he was expecting Mrs. Hudson to hit him – and reached out for his hand. John had never seen – or more accurately heard – her be so quiet, and Sherlock had never looked more relieved and grateful. It had felt as if Mrs. Hudson was saying she didn’t care about what happened to them. They were still her boys.

The news affected Lestrade more than John was expecting it to. He had turned a sickly ashen color in the middle of the nearly empty pub. John half expected him to be sick, but instead he had just asked a barrage of questions about how Sherlock was doing? How John was doing? If Sherlock was up for company? When? How? Where? And finally, why? John answered as best he could. Saying they were both fine; that they were dealing. Though John thought Lestrade looked skeptical about that. He had walked back with John from the pub, and hugged Sherlock tightly, who looked more than a little dumbfounded by the proceedings, which John found funny, teasing Sherlock about looking _‘shell shocked by a hug’_ for the rest of the night. They all got pleasantly tipsy that night, the night ending with Lestrade stumbling, flushed faced, and giggling down the stairs to a cab, and John bending Sherlock over the table for a shag. Lestrade made sure to visit weekly since then. Talking over cold case files with Sherlock and giving John worrying glances, which John steadfastly ignored.

Molly had hugged Sherlock too. Sherlock let her, looking only a little less shell-shocked than he had with Lestrade, and patted her head awkwardly, as she stifled a sob into his coat. They had become good friends since Sherlock came back from the dead, and John was very grateful at that point for these people in their life, who obviously cared about Sherlock a great deal. He knew for a fact that they would go almost as far as he would for Sherlock.

Mycroft, of course, did not need to be informed. He came to the flat the most subdued John had ever seen him. John witnessed the silent communication between the brothers, of which he had no hope of understanding, which ended with Sherlock glumly nodding, and Mycroft calling up his minions with boxes of books and supplies. The visit ended with Mycroft silently putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and a quiet _‘you can’t predict the future Sherlock’,_ which in turn made Sherlock glare at his brother as he walked out of the flat. It took five hours for John to get Sherlock to stop angrily playing the violin.

The boxes Mycroft had brought were very useful however.

Sherlock had learned braille in about 3 days. He made John walk with him in the most obscure streets and rooftops in London to make sure his mental map was 100% accurate. He went over sound tapes, cataloging every sound he could in his mind palace. Touching hundreds of different materials, ashes, and foods. Smelling different metals, chemicals, bodies at different levels of composition, even going as far as to taste soils from different parts of London. Days were a race and struggle to cram as much sensory information into his mind as possible.

And that was – better?

But there was the distance. This chasm that John felt that he could not cross, that kept Sherlock just out of reach. The nights were full of Sherlock tracing every line of John’s body, tasting him, even smelling John before he would lower himself on to John reverently. So sweetly and slowly John would be shaking from the effort to keep himself calm. Every night Sherlock would fall asleep in John’s arms.

And John would feel completely alone.

As days turned into weeks, Sherlock would barely speak to him. He’d answer questions with brevity, and play slow painful songs on his violin that would remind John of grieving for Sherlock when he was ‘dead’. When he did communicate with John it would be in bouts and fits of boredom and yelling. John had once come home and Sherlock had smashed every mug in their kitchen, crushing a piece of John’s favorite mug in his hand, causing blood to drip onto the floor. John hadn’t said a word as he took the piece out of Sherlock’s hand, cleaned, and bandaged the wound; Sherlock looking blankly at wall until John was finished.

That night Sherlock had goaded John into fucking him into the mattress, hard, rough, and brutal. John hadn’t noticed until the end that Sherlock had squeezed his hand into bleeding again. He had re-bandaged it and whispered sweet nothings into his ear, Sherlock clinging to him desperately for the rest of the night.

That was three weeks ago. Seven weeks since they found out that Sherlock was going blind. Twelve since the concussion. In this last week Sherlock had retreated in on himself even more, wandering around like a beautiful pale ghost without purpose; refusing to let Lestrade or Molly visit, and flat out ignoring John for days.

Sherlock’s eyesight had gotten worse and worse. Yesterday, Sherlock said he could only make out light sources and vague shapes and shadows. John was informed of this while Sherlock yelled from across the kitchen, throwing every bit of food in the fridge in the direction of John’s ‘shadow’. After his outburst he’d slumped against the fridge, as if he just didn’t have the energy to be mad about whatever he was mad about any longer. John had quietly picked him up, _the man really is too thin,_ and taken him to their bed. His heart melting when Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and fell asleep almost instantly against John’s chest.

So maybe things weren’t ‘better’, but John believed they were as good as they could be.

Almost.

John stared silently at Sherlock’s sleeping face, free from the gloom that had pervaded their lives recently. He couldn’t shake the feeling of distance, that feeling that Sherlock was keeping to himself.

It felt like the old days when Sherlock would keep him out of the loop on cases, or feelings, or fears. Except this time Sherlock was using sex as a way out of talking, and _oh God,_ how John just wanted to _talk_ to him. Help him. But he doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know how to bring Sherlock closer to him.

He brushes a curl from Sherlock’s forehead, and Sherlock shifts and mumbles incoherently, before settling again into sleep. So peaceful and picturesque. John sighs to himself. He misses Sherlock, and wonders if he’ll ever get that Sherlock back. Shamefaced by thinking such a selfish thought, John slides from bed and heads to the shower, _‘to wash my guilt away’_ he thinks miserably.

As he’s toweling himself dry, he hears a muffled shout and something heavy hitting the floor in the bedroom. He rushes from the bedroom to find Sherlock tangled in the sheets, eyes wide, and arm twisting violently as he whimpers and hyperventilates at the same time.

“John!”

“Shhh, it’s ok sweetheart, I’m right here.” John walks over and crouches by Sherlock, hesitantly placing his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock immediately gasps and twists his eyes around, searching and searching, panic flooding his face.

“John, I can’t see anything. John, It’s so _black._ ” He reaches out for John, but he’s still tangled in the sheets, and he starts to thrash his arms against it in an effort to free himself. Tears of frustration coming to his vacant eyes. John tries to calm him down, but Sherlock is getting more worked up by the moment. “John, I can’t see you.” Sherlock is openly sobbing now, still tangled in the sheet.

“Sweetheart, _Sherlock._ You’re hyperventilating.” John wraps his arms around the struggling brunette, effectively trapping him further, but John hopes it feels like a comforting trap rather than an unwelcome one. “You’re ok. You’re safe. You’re right here with me. Close your eyes baby. Everything is going to be ok.” John’s heart is breaking, he can feel his own tears fill his eyes as he rocks a crying, panting detective back and forth, holding him close to his chest on the floor. John continues his tirade of _‘It’s ok Sherlock, I’ve got you, you’re safe’_ and slowly Sherlock’s breath slows, even as he begins to shake against John. John continues to rub calming circles on his back, until even the shaking starts to dissipate.

John gently kisses his forehead as he releases Sherlock, de-tangling him from the sheet that’s soaked from sweat and residual water from John’s shower. Sherlock has his eyes squeezed shut. He looks so broken and still panicked, but trying to control it. John sweeps the damp curls from his face.

“Sweetheart. We’ve been preparing for this. I know this is hard, so hard,” John cups Sherlock’s jaw and rest their foreheads together, “but you are the most brilliant man I know. Everything is going to be ok.”

“Everything is so black John. I didn’t expect it to be _black,_ and blank, and _nothing._ ” He sounds so small to John, as Sherlock’s breathing picks up again. His stomach clenches painfully, imagining how terrifying this must be.

“Shhh, I know sweetheart, I know.” John brings Sherlock back into his arms. Rubbing circles on the nape of his neck. “I love you so much Sherlock. I’m right here, and I’m never going to leave you.”

John can feel Sherlock tense slightly against him, before Sherlock lets out a small muffled sob as he tries to hide his face in John’s chest. Then Sherlock hand reaches up to his chest and prods for a second before running down his side, all the way to his thigh. Sherlock gives a little hysterical bubble of laughter. “Are you naked?”

John can’t help but let out a startled laugh, he hadn’t even noticed. “Yeah.” Sherlock sniggers and hiccups a little from crying. John smiles, and leans back to cup Sherlock face again. “I love you Sherlock.”

Sherlock keeps his eyes squeezed shut, but they seem relax a little at John’s words. “I love you too, John.”

John leans down and brushes a kiss against Sherlock’s lips. “Let’s get you on the bed sweetheart.” Sherlock’s squeezes his eyes shut more tightly and his grip on John’s arm turns just this side of painful, but he nods. John gently wraps an arm around his waist and helps him stand. Walking the few steps to the bed, and lightly coaxes Sherlock to sit.

Sherlock is starting to take shallow pants again. John knows that as soon as Sherlock opens his eyes again it will send him into another panic attack, and John frantically tries to think about what to do. He leans up against the headboard and pulls Sherlock to his chest. Sherlock immediately wraps his arms around John’s torso, hiding his face from the world. John runs his fingers through the detective’s hair, trying to think of something, anything, he could say. So he decides he’ll just say everything he’s thinking. That he won’t hold back, and he’ll show Sherlock that he means everything to John. No matter what.

***

Sherlock can feel the adrenaline in his body, and unlike the normal adrenaline rush that comes from chasing criminals around the city with John, this one is unpleasant.

Even with his eyes closed, it looks _different._ There’s nothing. Black. Emptiness. No swirling dots of color on the inside of his eye lids. No light shadows or change in hue when you face a light source. No auras dancing in his sight. He feel disorientated to say the least. He feels motion sick and faint from hyperventilating. But he can’t get his mind to _work_ , because it’s so _dark._

He hears John whispering, but doesn’t process the words, instead tightening his hold around the man and presses his ear to John’s heart. Letting the steady beat sooth him as much as possible. John is still whispering a steady stream of words, and now Sherlock can feel John begin to slightly shake. Sherlock suddenly gets hit by John’s words, his mind processing everything said since John started and he can begin to feel tears well up again.

“I love you Sherlock, I am always going to be there for you. You are the best man I have ever met. Even when you are a brat, and insufferable, I could never love anyone like I love you. You are everything to me. You have saved me in every possible way, and I know this is so hard love,” his voice breaks, “God, it is, but regardless of any trials we may have, you are never getting rid of me. I’m going to be right here when you open your eyes. And even in all that dark, I would be honored if I could still be your conductor of light Sherlock.”

Sherlock sniffles against John’s chest before turning his head to face John, his eyes still tightly shut. “Really?” He hates how childish and pathetic that sounds, but he can’t help it. He’s so scared of losing John.

John gives a soft desperate sounding chuckle before he presses a kiss to Sherlock’s hairline. “Yes love, really.”

Sherlock sighs into John’s chest, slowly relaxing as he counts the beats of John’s heart. He doesn’t really believe John. Sherlock is sure that once John realizes that there’s nothing Sherlock can offer him anymore and he’ll leave eventually, but Sherlock is starting to believe it’s going to take longer than he initially expected, and he’ll admit to himself that he’s selfish. He knows he should make a clean break from John and let him get on with his life, but Sherlock can’t. Guilt twists his gut from his selfishness, but Sherlock ignores it in favor of snuggling closer to John, letting out a shaking breath against his neck. John’s arms tighten momentarily around his and Sherlock lets the soothing motion of John carding his hands through his curls calm him. He _can’t_ give John up. Not yet.

_Conductor of light._ He remembers the day he told John that he viewed him that way, but more accurately John _is_ his light. He even reorganized his entire Mind Palace to include John at the center of everything. Most of the time he has to keep the doors tightly shut so he’s not crushed by all of the feelings and insecurities, but regardless of –

_His Mind Palace._

He suddenly jerks up as the ideas start to rush through him. “Sherlock?” He can feel John follow him up, tension and concern practically rolling off of him. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh John, you are gorgeous.”

“Umm – ok?” Sherlock can practically _see_ John’s look of confusion.

“My conductor of light indeed John. My Mind Palace!”

“Uhhh.” John doesn’t sound any less confused but it’s unimportant right now. He settles down into a comfortable position and snaps at John to be quiet when he starts to ask another question. He can feel John twitch in a small tell of annoyance, but he settles and stays silent.

He can feel his mind start to look past the blackness that’s crushing him, and starts to process the sounds around him. He begins to walk down the path that leads him to his Palace. It’s muddy is his mind’s eye, slowly transitioning from black to imagination. Color suddenly bursts into his vision, so violently he twitches and John is instantly alert.

“What’s wrong?”

“I – I can see my Mind Palace.” John relaxes and rubs his hand up and down Sherlock’s arm. It feels reassuring.

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock looks around the entrance of his Palace, and it everything looks… off.

“Better than the black right?” Sherlock hums noncommittally in response and takes off down one of the hall ways. Doors stare at him, but he doesn’t stop until he sees the one marked with a child’s scrawl of **‘Sherlock’s room, keep out’,** he opens it and sees his current room, the room him and John are in right now, and it _almost_ works, this overlay of imagination and physical. He takes the mental image and adds John next to him where he can feel him currently. It feels strange, to try and update his mind palace in real time. It’s going to take work to function like this. Something still feels off though, but it’s working. That’s what matters.

John moves in front of him and his mind John shutters and wavers while he tries to perceive how John has moved. It’s easier than Sherlock suspected it would be. The slight ruffle of sheets, the scent of soap and dampness, John’s quiet breathing, the sound of his hands rubbing on his thighs all make is easy to pinpoint his location, and body language.

He reaches out for John and places his hand on his naked thigh “I think I can do this John.”

He listens as John lets out a quiet sigh of relief and feels his muscles ease underneath Sherlock’s touch.

“That’s great sweetheart. Whatever you need.” Sherlock slides his hand half an inch up and feels John’s muscles re-tighten and his breath hitch. Sherlock maintains his innocent look, he doesn’t want to have sex yet. Not so soon after that darkness, and the hazy, ever-updating picture in his mind is going to give him a headache soon, he can already tell, but it’s reassuring to know that he can still affect John. Even just with a small graze of his fingers.

“I think I want to go back to sleep.” Sherlock knows John his smiling, he doesn’t need his eyes to know that. He has this exact smile memorized. John loves it when he sleeps. He can’t help but miss seeing it though, the way John’s eyes brighten and his lips twitch in an effort not to seem too pleased about getting Sherlock to sleep, as if I might discourage Sherlock from cooperating, but being unable to hide the warm smile completely. Sherlock frowns to himself and wonders if the smile will change now. If John will continue to try and hold back.

“Of course Sherlock.” John pulls him down onto his chest again and Sherlock realizes how tired he really is, and quickly arranges himself around John’s body, which happens to be still naked.

“You going to get dressed?” he murmurs sleepily.

“You have a problem with my body?” Sherlock snorts into John’s neck. John snuggles down closer “Well alright then, stop complaining.” Sherlock hums agreeably, and feels John kiss his hairline. “Go to sleep sweetheart.” Sherlock hums agreeably again and quickly falls into sleep. The adrenaline crash catching up to him. The last thing he remembers is John’s arms tightening around him. Keeping him safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS I MIGHT BE GONG BLIND! I THINK THIS FIC WAS PROPHECY. 
> 
> But seriously, I have to get a bunch of tests like MRIs and what not. or is it a CAT Scan? I dunno, but please send me prayers, happy thoughts, luck, good feelings, I don't care what it is, I'm greedy and not picky. They assure me is a very low chance that I'll actually go 'blind' but i think my mind has already jumped to worse case scenario. I find out next month, so I'll keep you updated. 
> 
> But seriously, I start writing this fic and then THIS happens??? What the hell universe.


	5. Triggers

“Molly, I really don’t need your help.” Sherlock shakes off Molly’s hand on his elbow, and continues through the doors of the pub confidently. He knows that she’s hunched her shoulders against his rebuke, but he hardly cares. The smell of stale beer, fried food, and cheap sprayed air-freshener hit him. He hears the noise of the telly and chatter coming from the left of the pub, where the patrons of the establishment are cheering on a football match. He continues that way, using his guide cane to avoid stools and clutter. It’s his first outing since he’s lost his vision completely. John wanted to go somewhere familiar, but Sherlock had insisted that he go somewhere unknown. He wanted to assure himself that he could find John in a crowd, even without his sight.

John, of course, protested; insisting that he ought to be with Sherlock on his first time out. They had argued back and forth for an hour, and came to a compromise. Sherlock would meet John at this pub with Lestrade, and Molly would go with Sherlock _‘just to observe’._ Sherlock was deeply unhappy about this.

“For God’s sake Molly! Stop hovering!”

“I’m not hovering!”

“You’ve moved three chairs out of my way already, and I know you're signaling to people to get out of my way. Why people insist on treating me like a child-“

“I was just-” Sherlock turns to face her and points a finger at her accusingly.

“ _You_ are just as bad as John. I could do this by myself, I’m cleverer than all of you put together, I do _not_ need your help. You are here to observe. Stop. Helping.” Sherlock doesn’t wait for a response as he twists around to continue through the pub until he reaches the bar. Sherlock can see the swirling shapes in his mind that represent the different sounds in his mind. This is the first true experiment of the functionality of the ‘Mind Palace Mental Picture – Thing’ he’s trying to make work. Over the last week, he’s had John move furniture in the house, do various tasks so he can deduce what he’s doing, but the flat is too small and predictable. After the first day it was hardly a challenge anymore.

John has been absolutely insufferable. If people ever wondered if you could _feel_ people staring at you, the answer is yes, you absolutely can, and John has been doing it constantly. Every time Sherlock moves around the flat, there John is. Watching like some overprotective parent.

The real reason Sherlock wanted to do this alone, besides proving to himself that he could, was to get John off his back.

“Molly!”

“I’m sorry Sherlock! You were about to knock his drink off the bar.”

“I can do this by myself.” Sherlock growls at her, “Go. Away.” Somehow, it’s as if John has continued to watch him through Molly’s eyes.

“I’m here to-“

“Observe, yes, but since you are obviously incapable of not being involved in your idiotic ways, I’d entirely appreciate it if you would kindly fuck off.” Molly is silent and Sherlock can tell that she’s still there watching him with a stubborn expression on her face. He throws his hands up in frustration, “For fucks sake Molly, I don’t need this. I’m perfectly capable of doing this on my own but if you and John insist on treating me like some cripple, I _will_ do everything in my power to make your lives as miserable as possible.”

Molly is silent for a moment. Sherlock is just about to throw the nachos sitting on the counter next to him at her when she speaks up, “Fine Sherlock. I’ll go over to those tables and observe. No more helping.”

“Wonderful.” Sherlock says sarcastically, “Now go.”

Molly leaves with her shoes slapping angrily on the ground and a swish of her coat. Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep calming breath to center himself in his surroundings. His can hear the new age music coming from the speakers in the corner of the room, peoples glasses clinking on the tables in the direction Molly stormed off to, food frying from the kitchen, drafts being pulled from the tap to his left. A couple murmuring to each other in intimate voices, the woman giggling every so often. He can smell the woman’s perfume underneath the smell of the bar. He can smell the jalapeños from the nachos beside him, and hear the man eating them smacking as he chews.

He’s rapidly developing a headache from trying to create a mental picture in his mind of the layout, but he has to do this, he has to get John to understand that his ‘worrying’ is making Sherlock feel like he’s a burden, less than he ever was, and incapable. He lowers his hand and cocks his head, trying to sift through all the different noises of the pub.

He can hear a man shuffling closer to him and turns his head to his direction when the man trips over his guide stick, the blasted thing.

“Oy! Watch where you’re – oh, sorry about that Sir, I – wait, are you Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock looks up in the direction of the man’s face. He can hear the sound of a rustling newspaper in his hand, and smell chocolate digestives on the man’s breath.

“Who’s asking?”

“I – er – I mean I’m a big fan of – I’m sorry,” the man drops his voice down to a murmur, “are you on a case? Is that why you’re in disguise?”

Sherlock sneers at the man, bad mood worsening by the moment. “I’m not actually in disguise, excuse me.” Sherlock stands up and starts to walk towards the tables, guide cane swishing back and forth.

“Hey! Wait!” Sherlock pauses and hears the swishing of the man’s windbreaker as he walks toward Sherlock, “Are you saying you’re actually _blind_ but that’s ridiculous, you’re Sherlock Holmes.

“Yes, thank you for telling me my own name. It might have escaped your utter lack of observational skills, but I am busy.” Sherlock resumes walking toward the tables, avoiding Molly, who undoubtedly chose the table at the corner. He continues walking towards the back where John was most likely to sit. He told John not to give himself away when Sherlock was searching for him. Sherlock wanders, listening keenly for John.

He has a whole wing in his Mind Palace dedicated to John, and his sounds. The sighs he makes when aroused, frustrated, angry, or tired. His walk when he’s relaxed, determined, or when his leg in starting to act up. He knows what John sounds like in every tone of voice, and how he moves. He knows John’s smells. He has an entire room for John’s scent. There’s the category of all the smells that are unique to John’s own body chemistry, like the smell of his sweat, morning breath or his hair and skin, different at each time of day or depending on John’s mood. Then there all the smells that are from the specific brand of products that John always uses like his toothpaste, body soap, cologne and shaving cream. Sherlock has the smell of every ‘John’ memorized; just out of the shower John, just got home from the surgery John, aroused John, just worked out John, just woke up John, stayed home all day in his robe and didn’t bother to shower John. He has the feel of John memorized as well, he could be blind, deaf, and have anosmia, and Sherlock still feels like he would be able to determine John just from the texture of John’s hair.

John would probably find that unsettling. The thought makes Sherlock smile a little.

He hears the scuff of cheap trainers accompanied by the sound of John’s Haversack coat rustling from his right. He turn towards the sound and after a few paces can smell John cologne. He can also smell the residual smell of cigarettes from Lestrade and the smell of the veggie pizza that is obviously John’s. Which Sherlock would guess is uneaten and picked at nervously.

“You shouldn’t waste food like that John.”

There’s silence for a moment before he hear Lestrade thump back against his chair and give a little huff of laughter. John stands up and surprises Sherlock into a crushing hug.

“You are bloody brilliant Sherlock.”

He can hear Lestrade laughing in earnest now, “My God John, you’re right, he does look like he’s shell shocked when people hug him.”

Sherlock pulls back to give a glare at John. “Were you making fun of me?”

John laughs, “Only always, love.” He grabs Sherlock by the collar and pulls him down for a kiss, the taste of whiskey on John’s tongue. Sherlock can hear some of the more intoxicated patrons start to cat call and wolf whistle when John presses in close and draws out a not-so-subtle moan from Sherlock, which John hums appreciatively at. There’s a delicate cough from behind Sherlock and John breaks the kiss, still holding Sherlock close to him.

“Molly, I do believe you’re hovering again.” Sherlock says with absolutely no heat.

“Shut up Sherlock.” Sherlock can tell she’s smiling.

“How did you know I wasn’t eating? Actually how did you know I had food at all? Or where I was? I can’t believe you knew–“ It’s as if Sherlock’s bad mood never existed as John continues to ramble his brilliance, still holding his close and kissing him every few words. 

“Not that you aren’t just the cutest couple,” Lestrade interrupts in a falsetto, “but do you have to cling to each other like that?” John tightens his hold of Sherlock for a moment, and Sherlock thinks John might deck Lestrade right then and there for suggesting he let go, but he quickly relaxes his hold, moving to Sherlock’s side, and keeping a possessive hand on Sherlock’s lower back.

Lestrade and Molly are arguing about whether to stay or go back to work, and Lestrade is insisting Molly stay for a drink. Sherlock stands at John’s side, and can feel the warmth blooming in his lower stomach when John’s hand presses tighter every time Sherlock shifts or another patron passes too close for John’s liking.

Lestrade and Molly are still bickering back and forth when John leans over, hand sliding to grip Sherlock’s hip firmly. “I want to _devour_ you, Sherlock.” He shivers at John’s breath ghosting his neck.

“I think you have an intelligence kink, John.” Sherlock whispers back. John hums deeply in reply, a sound that sends goosebumps down his spine. He _knows_ that sound.

“You know, you just might be right, I knew you were going to find me, but to have you know what I was doing, what I eating. It was a flashback to when I met you. Your _mind_ , it’s just absolutely brilliant,” his voice drops an octave, “and I want to _ruin_ it.”

The warmth in Sherlock strengthens, and Sherlock visibly shivers as thoughts of all the things John might want to do floods his mind. John suddenly backs away and Sherlock instinctively tries to follow his body and nearly over balances before John tightens his grip, slotting himself next to Sherlock, holding him steady.

“Molly,” John interrupts, “just stay for a bloody drink, we’re celebrating.” Sherlock feels John turning his head, presumably scans the pub for a table. “Let’s get a booth, this table won’t be big enough.”

Molly hesitates for a moment before replying, “Fine. One drink.”

“Oy, you listen to him? Can you believe this?” Lestrade grumbles good naturedly.

“Stop it!” Molly giggles, and Sherlock and hears her lightly slap Lestrade arm.

“You wound me Ms. Hooper. I’m hurt.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes as Molly giggles girlishly. They head left, towards the back wall, where Sherlock assumes is lined with booths, John is laughing along with Molly and Lestrade, while Sherlock is hyper-aware of John’s grip on him, his body pulled flush against John as they walk.

“You in first, Sherlock. The booth is right in front of you.”

Sherlock scowls, “I know where the booth is.” He shrugs off his coat and tosses his coat into his seat, to demonstrate, that yes, he can tell there’s a booth in front of him.

“I’m sorry pet, I know you do.” Sherlock feels his stomach flutter at John calling him ‘pet’ in public. John is usually reserved in regards to pet names anyways, especially in public, and especially _that one._ To call him _that_ in public is unprecedented, the name usually kept for times when John is taking him apart with fingers and kisses and whispers.

Sherlock slides into the booth, hoping his movement hides that fact that he’s blushing. He hears the others sliding in; Molly and Lestrade across from himself and John.

Sherlock feels John lean back and rests his arm on the back of the booth, his hand coming to rest on the nape of Sherlock’s neck. It makes Sherlock feel pinned down, as well as hopelessly aroused.

“You’ve been quiet Sherlock, did John snog your voice away? Blimey, should’a kissed him sooner, John!” Sherlock glares, when John laughs beside him.

“Yeah, would have saved a lot of trouble, wouldn’t it have, pet?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to give a scathing retort, but he feels John grip on his neck tighten and Sherlock’s retort dies on his tongue, head drooping and pressing into John’s hand, hypersensitive to his touch, humming at the feeling of John holding him in place.

“I’m sorry love?”

“Yes John.” He answers by instinct alone. Hardly able to focus when all he can feel is John’s grip on his neck. All he can hear is the word ‘pet’ rattling inside his mind. All he can taste is John and the lingering whiskey on his tongue. He feels completely in tune to John. He notes subconsciously that it feels different than other times they’ve flirted in public, where Sherlock’s mind was rapid firing deductions about everyone around them. This feels calmer and more intense at the same time.

John makes an approving sound and starts to runs his fingers through the curls at the base of his neck.

It’s been nearly a month since they’ve had sex, not since that night he’d broken all of John’s mugs. He just hasn’t been ready to experience sex without sight. He hasn’t even felt aroused, not while he was cramming sensory information into his mind, and then adjusting to his lack of vision. Now it’s as if his body is rebelling against his lack of sexual stimuli this past month, blood filling his cock, and mental images of John bending him over in the men’s room, or pushing Sherlock to his knees on the walk home, or –

He adjusts his position, hoping it looks natural.

He’s still unsure if he’s ready for this. Anxiety floods him as he wonders if he’ll be good enough now. He’s prided himself on being able to tell what John wanted before John could even formulate the words to ask. He was able to _observe_ John: the flush of his chest when Sherlock hit just the right spot, the dilation of his pupils when Sherlock looked particularly enticing, the twitch of his fingers that told him John was holding back. He was able to read John’s moods and whether he wanted it sweet, or slow, or hard, or deviant, but what now? Would John be disappointed?

He feels tense and inadequate, but still desperately aroused as John continues to run his fingers through his hair, occasionally stopping to grip the base of his neck firmly. Lestrade and John are in a conversation about some sport (Sherlock could care less about which one), while Molly occasionally interjects with a question or comment. John’s fingers get tangled in his curls and he tugs a little to free it, and Sherlock’s not sure why the back of his neck and his crotch seem to have a direct link to one another.

He squirms in his seat, flushing when he realizes he looks completely out of character.

“Are you alright Sherlock?” Molly places a hand over the one he has resting on the table, it feels completely wrong while he’s trying to hide an erection, and it takes everything he has to not jerk away. “You look sort of unwell.”

Sherlock pulls his hand away and uses it to cover his mouth as he clears his throat, “Yeah, I’m fine.” John moves his hand from Sherlock’s neck, and he nearly whines at the loss of contact, instead clearing his throat again, hoping he’s hiding everything from showing on his face. “It’s uh - it’s just a bit warm in here.”

“Well you don’t have anything to drink!” Lestrade says perfectly reasonably,”I’m nearly done with mine as it is. Rounds on me, no arguments Molly!”

Molly gives a little sound that is half protest, half amusement, but he can hear Lestrade stride away before Molly has the chance to say anything, and hears her give an exaggerated sigh. “You lot are peer pressurers.”

“I think he fancies you.” John deflects.

Molly snorts in a completely un-lady like fashion, which amuses Sherlock immensely. He always liked in when Molly stopped trying to impress people. “No, that’s silly. He’s just being nice.”

Sherlock can tell that she’s fidgeting, and most likely blushing as well. He let’s out a hum of disagreement at Molly’s comment, half distracted by John’s knee against his. 

“Sherlock? Got something to say?” 

John grabs his knee, and Sherlock flushes, stammering to answer. “I - I mean - he’s - Lestrade - is obviously attracted to you.”

“How can you tell?” Molly sounds sketiable, hopeful, and curious all at once.

“The amount of touches. He diverts attention to you, and he’s obviously suggested we stay for a drink in hopes of spending time with you.” Sherlock pauses and leans over the table, dropping his voice,”And you fancy him back.” Molly start to protest and Sherlock leans back, and waves her off, continuing his deduction. “You’d never stay out from work otherwise. You have at least one cadavers’ paperwork to attend to, most likely more, judging from the lingering smell of formaldehyde coming off your shoes. Probably spilt some earlier today and stepped in it. You reasoned you could take a long lunch in order to ‘help’ John and I, but there isn’t any logical reason for you to stay. Therefore, it isn’t logical, it’s emotional, and although I know you care deeply about me Molly, you know as well as I do that you’re no longer needed. You’re staying because of your attraction to Lestrade.”

“I - that’s not - I mean - Gregory is perfectly attractive - but I’m not - “

“Oh, Shut it Molly, Greg is a fine piece of ass and you should have at it!” John chuckles full heartedly as Molly splutters. 

Sherlock snaps his head toward John in a parody of peering at him accusingly “‘Fine piece of ass’?” He repeats, John chuckles again, draping his arm across Sherlock’s shoulders, pulling Sherlock into his side.

“Hush pet, I didn’t mean it like that.” Sherlock feels a flash of annoyance cloaked with insecurity, and Sherlock shrugs John’s arm off of him.

“Oh, pray tell John, _what_ exactly did you mean?

“Sherlock,” John’s voice losing it’s flirty tone, “I didn’t -”

“There we are! Round o’ drinks to cool us all down.” Lestrade clumsily slaps down the four drinks. Sherlock can hear the liquid sloshing, most likely spilling over the sides. “What’s wrong? Something happen?”

“No.” Sherlock answers tersely, “John, I need to go to the lue.”

“Sherlock, please don’t -”

“Quite badly actually, if you wouldn’t mind.” John hesitates for a moment longer before sliding away from Sherlock and out of the booth. Sherlock collects his cane, and stands using the table as balance while his mind reaches out to his surroundings. “Lestrade?”

“Hmm,” Sherlock pulls Lestrade's focus away from his drink, “yes?”

“I do believe that John would _love_ to take your ass out tonight.”

“My ass?” Lestrade sounds confused

“Sherlock!” John most certainly sounds exacerbated now.

“Molly?” Sherlock hears her jerk and nearly tip her glass over.

“Yeah?”

“Would you walk me home after I return from the washroom?”

She hesitates “Yeah, sure Sherlock.”

“Sherlock, please -”

“Thank you Molly!” Sherlock can hear John’s jacket rustle as he reaches out to grip Sherlock arm, and Sherlock smoothly steps away from him, and begins to walk in the direction of the toilets. He hears Lestrade's confused _‘What did I miss?’,_ and Molly’s quiet murmuring, undoubtedly telling him that a certain detective is much too sensitive, and they’ll both tell John how crazy said detective is.

_“I don’t know how you deal with him John.”_

_“Yeah, you could do better.”_

_**“What a freak!”** _

Sherlock pushes through to the men's room and crashes himself against the wall heavily, breathing hard and fast.

_“John, seriously, you aren’t going to stay with him, right?”_

_“You don’t want to be taking care of a cripple!”_

_“He can’t even do cases! **He’s useless.** ” _

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut tightly and covers his ears in a childish attempt to quiet his mind. _“It’s not true! John loves me.”_

_“But do you really love him?”_

_“You could just get another fine piece of ass.”_

_“You don’t need a rude, inconsiderate, **sociopath.** ” _

_“A freak!”_

_**“You machine!”** _

_“Psychopath!”_

_“Sherlock.”_

_**“God, we hated him.”** _

_**“Sentiment is a chemical defect.”** _

_“Sherlock!”_

“John.”

“Sherlock!”

“No!” Sherlock registers hands shaking his shoulders. A deep racking sob over takes him as he opens his eyes to blackness. Is this even real?

“Sherlock, can you hear me?”

Can he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three things,
> 
> I AM SO SORRY IT"S BEEN MONTHS. I"M AWFUL AND THAT ISN'T CHANGING ANYTIME SOON.
> 
> Also, it's my birthday today =D I got to spend my day doing the only thing I actually enjoy, which is reading/writing about fictional characters.
> 
> And lastly, I STILL HAVEN'T BEEN TO THE NEUROLOGIST. THE LITERAL THREAT OF BLINDNESS STILL DOESN'T"T STOP MY LAZINESS. I'M AWFUL.
> 
> Anyways, please comment and tell me what you think! Love you all!!


End file.
